


Quiet of the Screaming Night

by QueenMab81



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 01:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4416698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenMab81/pseuds/QueenMab81
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Jackson hears the voices of those he didn't save in his head, screaming their accusations. Being with Hobbs gives him a moment of reprieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet of the Screaming Night

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers in the end notes.

Edmund opens the door and steps out into Whitechapel, Bennet at his side. The sun is bright, but autumn’s chill haunts the air yet. As they head down the steps, Edmund taking the lead, Bennet speaks.

“There’s been three more in the last week alone. How many more, sir? How many more children must die?”

“God save us all, Sergeant, too many if we do not find this person quickly.” 

Over twenty dead children in the last three months, of varying age, gender and appearance. Even Jackson, strong of spirit as he is, has grown ill at the sight of the small bodies that cross his tables and Edmund fears for his friend. More so with every passing day.

“Oi! Drake!”

Edmund is but a few paces away from his sergeant when the cry goes up, and he turns in step with Drake. An officer, his arms full of raucous drunk, tilts his chin toward the cobblestone. They both look down to see a girl collapsed there, hands twitching even as her eyes begin fog, glaze.

Someone screams. “Dear lord,” another says.

Dear lord indeed. Before Edmund can so much consider the implications, Drake has the girl in his arms, face drawn tight. She is the oldest to have died with the froth of poison still coloring her lips. Edmund snaps into action, spinning on his heel to lead them back up the street toward H Division. The crowd surrounding whispers and murmurs as they make their way, eyes wide. Some draw away as they pass, too terrified of the possible implications in the girl’s sudden death.

Unsurprisingly, H Division is a madhouse, her door blocked and her lobby full to bursting. Edmund raises his voice to be heard over the din, fighting to get the girl to the person most capable.

“Make way, _make way_!” 

Edmund is of a mind to fire his gun when the hall is slow to clear, though he stays his hand. The girl in Drake’s arms is beyond hope, but that she is still warm gives him some hope Jackson will find evidence of use. Poison, he has taught them, can leave the body quickly, gone without a trace by the time it has gone cold.

***.*.*.***

_The rush of screaming voices, the stench of death, drives Jackson from his dead room and out into the night. His arm stings from the prick of a needle, his blood churning as the world around him becomes shadowed and faded. His feet take him of their own accord, and soon he finds himself outside a door of plain wood—unremarkable for all the joy which lies behind oak planks and metal findings. Relief sags through his shoulders as he steps inside, door thudding closed behind him._

_“You, Captain Jackson, are a mess.”_

_The voice is whisper soft, and from the kitchen area it emerged comes the muffled sound of footsteps, uneven in gait—shuffling. Jackson waits, poised on the brink of disbelief as he is every time he comes here. The air leaves his lungs in a great shuddery breath and he is on his knees by the time Hobbs reaches him._

_“I was so certain you were dead.” Every time he sees his boy, he remembers and his fear rises._

_“But you found me. And just in time, I’d say.”_

_Jackson laughs and shakes his head. “I was almost too late. A few seconds longer…”_

_Hobbs sits on the entryway bench and Jackson knee-walks to him, cheeks unashamedly damp. When he reaches his boy, Jackson lays his cheek to Hobbs’ thigh and clings, fingers creasing freshly pressed trousers._

_“You are a mess,” Hobbs repeats. His fingers are gentle as they slide through Jackson’s hair. “Shall I draw you a bath?”_

_“No,” Jackson replies. “No, but I would draw you one, and perhaps you would share it with me?” He hates the uncertainty in his voice, hates the vulnerability there, though of anyone, he should find it easy to share with Hobbs._

_“Of course. Come on, then.” Hobbs stands, taking Jackson with him. He offers a steady hand when Jackson’s legs prove weak. “There is tea as well, and some bread and cheese if you have a mind to eat.”_

_“Later—perhaps after a nap.”_

_“A nap?” Hobbs smiles at that, wry and disbelieving. “A bath and then a “nap,” and perhaps afterward some food.”_

***.*.*.***

“What have you got for me, then,” Jackson says, as they push through the door. He has his back to them, bent over a series of test tubes and beakers. They have been at this for near three months now, trying to track a killer through his victims with only the barest knowledge to work with. Maybe, just maybe, today will be the day they make real progress.

“Girl, not more than seventeen, dropped dead just down the way from the division house. Sergeant Rhodes happened to see her collapse and hailed Sergeant Drake as his own hands were full at the time.”

“I need a sample of her blood, quickly.”

There is no one in the room outside them three, so it Drake who rolls his sleeves and takes up an empty syringe. They have both come to bear this task; Jackson has become temperamental and few are willing to assist him except under duress.

The blood is taken and given over with haste, and he bends once more to his task. He is but a few moments before he reaches for his surgeon’s kit.

At the last second, just as Jackson is turning, Edmund reaches out and covers the girl’s face with a tattered towel. Jackson’s eyebrows rise when he sees, but he makes no attempt to unmask her. They have all learned, each in their own way, not to let the faces distract them from their undertaking.

They step back as Jackson begins to open her up, watching on with hearts grown heavier. She was not, as they had first taken her to be, beset by overindulgence, but with child. The thing in Jackson’s hand holds form, a tiny fist uncurled to reveal the most delicate fingers. Bennet swears and turns away—Jackson simply stares.

“Goddamn this man,” Bennet says, face twisted in a snarl. “Goddamn him to the deepest circle of Hell.”

“And to the darkest pit we will send him, I promise you this. Someone shall pay for the innocent lives taken from Whitechapel and any other town he has terrorized.”

The care with which Jackson handles the poor wretch is astonishing to say the least, though the hard set of his jaw and the glint of murder in his eyes familiar. Each of them wears a similar mask.

“I—I need to check the contents of her stomach.”

Jackson’s hands are steady as he works, taking the girl apart to learn her secrets. As he runs his assortment of tests, Bennet steps up to the table, tucking back in the parts no longer under inspection.

“Is she fit to be closed up now?”

“Yes. Won’t be anything left of her stomach by the time I’m through.”

“And the babe?”

Jackson pauses mid reach for a jar. From where he stands, Edmund can see the grief that lines his friend’s face. 

“Let them stay together, Sergeant,” Edmund says.

“Aye, sir.”

Bennet’s hands are _not_ steady as he stitches the girl closed. Across the room, Jackson makes a sharp noise, triumphant as he holds up a bottle.

“We have our poison, gentlemen.” He bends to write in a small notebook, which he in turn hands to Edmund. “Most of the ingredients in there are easily found at any apothecary, but the last two on that list are rare. So rare, in fact, that I know of only one person who sells the plant they are derived from.”

They have their lead. Edmund heads for the door with Bennet at his heels, freshly washed. They are just exiting when he hears a noise behind him and he turns to see Jackson standing by the girl’s head, towel in hand. There was another reason for covering her face, but Edmund cannot recall it, not with rush of a new hunt pulsing through his blood.

They pass Susan on their way out, nodding as she makes her way to the dead room. If anyone can tend to Jackson now, it is her.

***.*.*.***

_The water is steaming as Jackson sinks down into the tub. He watches with hooded eyes as Hobbs makes slow work of stripping off his clothes, not a deliberate show, but enjoyable nonetheless. When at last he is naked, Hobbs offers up a shy smile._

_“The water is gonna turn cold, you stall any longer.”_

_“It’s fresh from the kettle, so I doubt that.”_

_Still, he wastes no time climbing into the space Jackson has left for him, his back to Jackson’s chest. He hisses a little at the heat, but leans back, the water lapping at his skin and turning it pink. Jackson trails a hand up from his stomach to chest, stopping to flick at the hard nub of one nipple, then back down._

_“All I could think about today was coming here, touching you.”_

_“This new case has been hard for you. Children, all of them.”_

_A low, hurt sound forces its way past Jackson’s lips. “The last was a girl barely into her teens and pregnant.”_

_“There’s a connection, though, isn’t there?”_

_There is not, though not for lack of trying. “Nothing we can see. But enough about that. Tell me, how was your day?”_

_“Boring,” Hobbs says with a sigh. “I did some washing, read a bit.” He shrugs. “I wish they would let me come back to work.”_

_“They will,” Jackson says, reassuring. “They want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself further. And Reid said that if you’re up for it, you can start part-time, just a few hours a day in the dead room with me or manning the machine. We haven’t had anyone with as keen a sense as you at it, so you know he must want you back sooner rather than later.”_

_“I feel ready, sometimes. Usually in the morning. But then, by lunch…”_

_By lunch, his back is screaming with pain and his left leg drags. Had the blade been any further to the right, even by a hair, it would have severed his spine just as Goodnight had intended. And then their boy would have been lost too them, paralyzed and unable to keep his head above the water when he was dropped into the river. Just the thought has Jackson holding him tighter, fingers leaving bruises in the too-pale skin stretched thin across Hobbs’ shoulders._

_“I would have died that day.” Jackson buries his face in Hobbs’ shoulder as he confesses._

_“No. You have—had Susan. She would never let you go so easily.”_

_“She let me go so I could have you.”_

_“Did she?” Hobbs starts to twist around, but Jackson stops him. He settles once more, and when he speaks again, the subject is changed. “I made bread. Took a few tries to get it right, but old Miss Bessie, the baker down the road, she gave me some tips for getting it right.”_

_Jackson grins against his neck, lips and tongue sliding up and down the curve of Hobb’s neck, tasting. “It smells delicious. Your stew the other night was pretty damn good, too.”_

_He can feel the heat of Hobbs’ blush and it makes him smile, wide enough that his cheeks ache with it._

_“Yes, well, dessert went out with the pot.”_

_Jackson grins and says, “I’ve got all the dessert I need right here.” He slides a hand down to tug at Hobbs, stroking him into full hardness. There’s a small protest when he leaves off, but it’s silenced when he returns with a soap-slicked hand. “Now, what do you say I get us cleaned up?”_

_“I’d like that.”_

***.*.*.***

Susan arrives in time to see a glass beaker fly through the air and shatter against the far wall. Opposite is Jackson, his face drained of all color and a now familiar tightness around his eyes. She ducks back out of sight and watches as he sinks down onto his stool, face in hands and shoulders shaking with rage and grief. So much grief. After a time, he turns away, opens a drawer and pulls out a small case. Though she cannot see what is inside, she knows and forces herself to look away.

She should speak up, speak out against this... this abuse, but she does not. It is not her place, not anymore anyway. They gave up those rights, to chastise one another as husband and wife. Tomorrow she will speak with him and he will shake his head, empty promises made carelessly and insincerely. He has not been hers in an age, not since they came to this wretched city.

When she deems enough time passed, she knocks briskly and enters. “I was wondering—” She breaks off, gaze landing on the dead girl laid out. So many things jump out at her: youth; too-thin skin stretched over her cheeks; expanded waistline; hair shorn close to her skull, dark brown; skin smudged and pale. Her lips are sticky with some foreign residue, and Susan knows this is another victim. There’s something else, something she’s not registering, but she gives up on deciphering whatever it is. “Jackson. Jackson, what—”

Her words seem to spurn him. In short, jerky movements, he stands and stumbles away from the table, setting glass beakers and phials clattering in against one another. His eyes are wide, his pupils wider, and he looks without seeing her. He starts to leave, then doubles back for his hat and coat. Susan watches him from the safety of the shadows, torn between anger and pity. It occurs to her the rare opportunity she is being given, and she hurries after him, close enough others will think they are together.

Outside, the sun is beginning to set and the vendors close shop. A few hands reach for her, small and dirty, and she side-steps them neatly. She slows the further along they get, all too aware of the confidence she is breaking by following him. Deep in her heart, she knows she does not want to see where he goes.

They do not enter the slums, for which she is thankful. Instead, the skirt along the edge between middle and lower, until at last they reach a row of run down house, plain and unassuming. Here she stops, following with her eyes only as Jackson ducks and weaves. She marks the door through which he enters, and, after it is obvious there will be no hasty exit, she moves to a low window to peer through.

Somehow, she is not surprised that this is where he goes. She bites her cheek, gathers up her skirt, and slips away into the night with his secret.

***.*.*.***

_Hobbs’ skin is soft beneath his fingers, the delicate line of his spine broken only by a small puckered scar just to the left of its intended mark. Still, there is a hitch in Hobbs’ step, and even now, so many months later, he fatigues rapidly the longer he is on his feet, not yet healed though he pretends otherwise._

_“Are you going to pet me like a cat or come to bed?”_

_There’s a slur to Hobbs’ words, one that worries Jackson, though he is ever careful not to reveal such._

_“Perhaps I’d like to pet you.”_

_“Mmm.”_

_Hobbs stretches, sinuous as a cat. Jackson fancies he can hear his boy purr as his fingers scritch at Hobbs’ skin, and lies down beside him. He feels every tremor as he kisses a mole under Hobbs’ right shoulder blade, and he presses closer, envelopes Hobbs with his body as best he can. The drag of his stubble across a taut buttock earns him a laugh, but when he uses his thumbs to spread Hobbs open, his breath hot where Hobbs is furled tight, the laugh turns to a shaky moan._

_“What—?”_

_“Shh. Been wantin’ to do this for a while now.”_

_Before Hobbs can protest further, Jackson drags the flat of his tongue over the tight furl, feeling it flutter. It gives way reluctantly when he pushes in; Hobbs keens, a high, quavering sound that urges Jackson on._

_“Oh god.”_

_A part of Jackson wants to throw caution and control to the wind, but Hobbs is not Susan. His tongue is not sharp, nor his demeanor snappish. Where Susan is vicious in her passion, Hobbs is sweet, his innocence clinging despite all they have done together these past months, and Jackson is determined to cherish every inch of him. Instead, he reaches beneath Hobbs to stroke him, fingers cupped under the head of his cock._

_“Come on, darlin’, don’t hold out on me now.”_

_Hobbs laughs, a shaky whisper of a sound. “I want you in—”_

_Jackson bites at the fleshy curve of his buttock, sucks a mark there. “I will, but that don’t mean you can’t come now.” He eases back, slides his mouth down and pulls Hobbs’ cock back toward his lips. He can see how tightly drawn up Hobbs’ balls are, and his own ache in sympathy. When his mouth returns to its previous feast, Hobbs jerks, his cock spilling freely at last._

_“So damn good,” Jackson murmurs. He kneels up, eyes riveted, and strokes where Hobbs is slick with his spit, fluttering in time with each panted breath. “Darlin’...”_

***.*.*.***

The pharmacist kills their lead with only a few words, regret thick in his voice. “It’s always a messenger boy that brings the request or picks up the items in question. Always pays cash, different lad each time. Different service as well. I wish I could tell you more, Inspector.”

“And I as well,” Edmund replies, not unkindly. Beside him, Bennet stands still, his anger palpable if not visible. It is not the pharmacist’s fault this man hides his tracks so well.

As they make their way out onto the street once more, Bennet growls, “A dead end, sir. What are we to do?”

“I am at a loss, Bennet. Perhaps Jackson will have more to tell us on our return. He had yet to examine the body itself for clues.”

The hour is late, darkness creeping in along the streets, casting shadows in an already gloomy town. Whitechapel is Edmund’s—H Division’s—to protect and serve, though as of late, they have barely done either.

Their path takes them first to H Division, but the dead room is silent, the girl covered but still there, the sickly sweet smell of death pungent. Edmund frowns, but soon enough Peabody and Goodman are there to see her away. At the front desk, Atherton looks between them and shrugs. 

“I saw him leave some minutes after you; nothing since.”

“No surprising, given the hour. Perhaps the tavern?”

As they walk, they lay out the case once more, tireless in their desire to see their killer captured—though their conversation is exhausted after three months of discussion.

“Twenty three children dead, with no commonality except that they are not of age. Two boys of Jewish origin, three genteel children, one protestant, two girls of African descent, a Chinaman’s son—what am I missing? Brown eyes, green eyes, blonde, red-head, Irish, English, an American.” Frustration burned through him. “There is something we are not seeing, Bennet, and I am at a loss as to what it might be.”

“Perhaps Jackson might lay them all out at once, sir? Or as many of them as may fit in the room, so as to give us a better idea of comparison?”

“Perhaps, although that would require we track down the elusive captain.” Annoyance sharpens his words as they duck into and then back out of Jackson’s favored tavern. Late though it is, Edmund imagines Jackson is ending his evening with a stiff drink, if not here somewhere else.

They carry on, but after the fourth or fifth stop, admit they might be wrong.

“Perhaps he retired early? That last girl seemed to affect him more than the others.”

“There is nothing to it but to check. If you are in no hurry after this, dinner? I hired a cook not long ago and her meals are well enough.”

Bennet nods, eyes squinted as he searches the horizon. “Aye, sir, dinner would be greatly appreciated.”

“Good. We might be in luck and Jackson will be at the house. If not... If not, we shall try Susan’s. He must be somewhere.”

***.*.*.***

_They lie flush face-to-face, tongues tangled together, cocks brushing, and one of Hobbs’ slender legs hooked over Jackson’s hip. It feels better than anything else Jackson can think of and he never wants to stop, never wants this moment to end. He slides his hand down Hobbs’ back to pull him closer, and one finger slips in, slides into the heat of him and presses gently at the nub that leaves Hobbs gasping. At the resultant shiver, Jackson twists around to reach for the oil. When he returns, it is to slide two fingers deep and hold, a hitch in Hobbs’ breath as he adjusts to the intrusion._

_“You okay?”_

_“More than.”_

_Hobbs opens around him, easy after all the attention Jackson gave him earlier. He’s hot inside, slick with oil, and he grabs instinctively at Jackson’s fingers on each withdraw. Jackson groans low in his chest and drops his head to Hobbs’ shoulder, sets his teeth there to leave his mark before moving lower to mouth at a pebbled nipple._

_“Jackson,” Hobbs sighs. His hands come up to hold Jackson there, chest pushed up. “Does it bother you, that I don’t have breasts.”_

_“No.”_

_“Would you like me better if I did?”_

_“Darlin’, I would love you no matter how you looked or the shape of your body. With this,” he emphasizes, tugging at Hobbs’ cock, “or without it.”_

_Hobbs lets out a soft, choking sound, and when Jackson looks up, his eyes are wide and wet. It takes him a moment to understand why, but when he does, tears burn at the backs of his eyes, sting his cheeks as they slide down. Hobbs wipes them away with gentle fingers, eyes full of sadness and affection. They shift until Jackson’s body is covering Hobbs’, his legs bracketing Jackson’s waist. It takes some doing to get lined up, but once he does, Jackson pushes in._

_At the first breach Hobbs tips his head back, pale throat bared as he chants, “ _Oh-oh-oh._ “_

_“God, you feel so damn good, darlin’.”_

_“Jackson—Jackson, please.”_

_Jackson cuts off anything further with a kiss both tender and brutal in turns. The first thrust rocks him to his core, and he gasps into Hobbs’ mouth. When he pushes in again, it is deep, earning him moan that makes his soul sing._

_“Jackson, please. Please, I need—”_

_“Anything, you beautiful boy,” Jackson replies. He shifts, curls one arm under and around Hobbs’ shoulders to hold him tight and slips his free hand between them to take hold of his cock. Their mouths slide together, messy and enthusiastic._

***.*.*.***

The knock that comes is sharp and disturbing. Susan turns away from her stitching with a sigh equal parts exhaustion and irritation, but doesn’t stand. “Come in,” she calls, voice weary.

She expects one of her girls, possibly Jackson in another fit of determination to win her back—though he was in a bad spot earlier and it is rare he comes back from those moments so quickly. What she does not expect is Inspector Edmund Reid in the company of his sergeant, Bennet Drake.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” 

Drake and his unending politeness. Susan curls her lip and stands, unwilling to be caught on uneven ground in her own territory. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“We are in search of your husband,” Reid replies. “He is not to be found in his usual haunts.”

For just a moment, Susan hesitates. It has not come up, for all that they have aired their other troubles before Jackson’s daytime companions. Her indecision is noticed, though, and so she follows through, sliding past them to close the door. When Reid opens his mouth to speak again, she shakes her head and moves to turn on some music. When she is certain they will not be overheard, Susan directs them to sit and takes a seat opposite.

“He isn’t here.”

“Yes, that much is quite obvious,” Reid says. “Where might he be found?”

Again she hesitates, torn between holding Jackson’s confidence and allowing someone else to carry the burden of his occasional madness. Of anyone, these men could be trusted, and so she bows her head, the words falling from her lips with a freedom long desired.

***.*.*.***

_Their sweat-slick skin prickles in the cool air, and it is much too hot to be pressed as close together as they are, but Jackson would rather die a thousand horrible deaths than be separated from Hobbs longer than absolutely necessary. He hums, wishing for a cigarette as Hobbs tucks his head under Jackson’s chin, his lips catching in the hair there when he speaks._

_“I feel useless cooped up here all day.”_

_“Doctor’s orders. Your back ain’t one hundred percent yet, and I won’t—I would rather wait an entire year and have you completely healed than risk something terrible happening because we were impatient. And you got no reason to feel useless.” Eyes locked on the ceiling, Jackson gives voice to his darkest secret. “I hear all these voices in my head now, calling— _screaming_ —out. It’s worse at night, except when I’m here.” He turns his head enough to brush a kiss over the crown of Hobbs’ head. “When I come here, all those voice go quiet.”_

_“Whose voices?”_

_Jackson shrugs. “Those kids someone has been murdering, friends I betrayed before I came to London. Most of all, though, I hear yours.”_

_“Mine?” Hobbs starts to sit up, but Jackson squeezes his shoulders, holding him in place. He subsides with a sigh, his hand smoothing over Jackson’s belly. “What do I say?”_

_“Sometimes you scream for me to save you, to find you before it—before it’s too late. Sometimes you scream because I failed you, and your body is just floating in the Thames, waiting to be brought in.”_

_“You saved me, Jackson. You found me in the nick of time. Even a few seconds longer...”_

_A few seconds longer and Jackson would be lying here alone, shattered into a million pieces by a grief he could never have seen coming, not until it was too late._

_“I don’t even know why I was there. I was just thinking, all these bodies keep turning up, what if there’s another, and then suddenly I see you, just beginning to sink beneath the surface.” He chokes, pulls Hobbs in and up to crush their mouths together—the only violence to pass between them. When he pulls away, both their cheeks are stained with tears. “I had no idea.”_

_“If it makes you feel any better, neither did I.” Hobbs kisses him this, unusually forthright and demanding. When he settles once more, the subject changes, returning to that of the children. “What are the similarities?”_

_“Besides all the victims being kids? None. Sure, there are a couple the same age, some the same coloring, but there’s no majority. No tie.”_

_“Describe them to me.”_

_Jackson frowns but does. When he finishes, Hobbs asks,_

_“What did they look like? When they were brought in?”_

_“Like broken dolls. Hand-sewn clothes, poor quality, dirty.” Jackson’s mind wanders as he lists all the attributes, exhausted from revisiting this subject so many times, and he closes his eyes. “Rough knees and elbows, callouses on their hands and feet. The latest one, the girl, her skin was dry, cracked in places, and her hair was oily.”_

_“So not middle class. Not even lower class, not really. These were kids from the slums. None related?”_

_“Not that was obvious.”_

_“Neglected-like, then? Like maybe this kid was the one kid too many?”_

_Jackson’s eyes snap open in time to see Hobbs lean up on one elbow and stare down at him with wide, fathomless eyes. “Hot damn. But if that’s the case, then there’s no one killer.”_

_“Isn’t there? Think about it. One or two families killing off a child because there are too many mouths to feed, sure, but twenty-three in three months? That says something larger is afoot. There was a group, a cult, wasn’t there? A few months ago? Sergeant Drake’s wife died.”_

_“Yeah. You think it might be another cult?”_

_“Or maybe just one person who thinks they’re—they’re working for a higher power? Someone who will claim they just want to see the people rise above their poverty, climb out of the slums and—and—I don’t know.”_

_It makes an odd sort of sense. More than that, it calls to memory a woman, kind in face, her dress crisp and tidy with no flamboyance._

_“‘Restrict the number of children in a poverty-ridden family and they will overcome their strife.’ ‘Let not the poor fatten the slums with their get.’”_

_“Yes. And last week, when you left the Irish pub.”_

_How Jackson missed it at the time he cannot tell. A girl of fourteen or fifteen had been selling flowers. As the pamphlet lady passed, she offered her a rose of the palest pink. A gift, she said. The woman had struck her down, then stepped over the girl’s fallen body with her face twisted in scorn, as though the girl was no more than lump of dirty rags. The very girl who found her way into Jackson’s dead room earlier that morning._

_Another memory rushes up then, constricting Jackson’s lungs, making his pulse pound in his ears. Denial follows close on its heels, and he opens his mouth. Hobbs speaks for him._

_“Peyote, opium and morphine. How you have managed not to kill yourself, I don’t know.”_

_“No,” Jackson denies, even as he feels the phantom prick. “No.”_

***.*.*.***

Their feet pound against the cobblestone as they race through the streets, and Edmund could kill Susan for not saying something sooner.

“Shoulda known he’d go an’ do something stupid like this,” Bennet says, out of breath but unflagging. “Should have seen it coming when he seemed to move on so quickly. That boy was as much his as ours. Maybe more so, towards the end of it.”

Edmund says nothing. Cannot, when he carries so much of the blame. He knew long weeks ago what Jackson was about, but his hands are steady and his eyes clear when they need him the most and so no fuss was made. What was a little indulgence now and then if it meant his nights were not so sleepless?

“You think he is broke, sir?” Bennet taps his head, as though his meaning was not clear enough without.

“Aye, Sergeant, and I think I may have had as great a hand in it.”

They reach the house just short of gasping; Edmund has a stitch in his side, and the scarred flesh of his shoulder is pulled tight with exertion. Their feet slow and only then does Edmund notice the sharp clip of Susan’s heels behind them. Bennet growls and they start up the steps without pause. 

The door creaks beneath Edmund’s fist, swinging open. An unnatural stillness halts them when they mean to cross the threshold and Bennet shakes his head.

“Only one of us is meant to continue, sir, and that will not be either me or the lady.”

Susan looks as though to argue, but holds her tongue at Bennet’s sharp gaze. Edmund nods to them both, then makes his way in, heart heavy with what he knows he will find.

***.*.*.***

“I rescued you. I _saved_ you.”

Hobbs pulls away and Jackson grabs for him, desperate as the truth tries to worm its way into his reality. 

“You wanted to, Jackson. Oh, how you wished you had.”

Jackson sobs, chokes on his adamant rejection. “No!” There are screams filling his head, previously unheard while a young man—fresh from boyhood by all rights—drowned alone, paralyzed in a river of filth and death.

Hobbs returns to him then, sinks down on his knees beside Jackson, movements free and fluid. “You are not to blame, Jackson. You were never to blame.”

“I brought him here!”

A voice, unwanted but familiar, threatens to disrupt their fragile existence together. Jackson glares over his shoulder as his fingers bite into Hobbs’ flesh.

“No.” Quiet descends, enveloping them both, sudden and shocking.

“Hobbs.”

“No, you did not bring him here. Hate. Revenge. Anger. Those things brought him to Whitechapel. Those things fueled that man, Frank Goodnight, on his path of murder. Not you, Homer Jackson.” Hobbs’ mouth quirks, “Matthew Judge. Never you.”

“You screamed for me.” Plaintive and soft, Jackson’s words carry all of his grief and guilt.

“I screamed for forgiveness because I knew—I knew I was ruined. I saw those bodies, knew what was done to them. What I failed to stop.”

Jackson breaks down, then, his sobs wracking his entire body. Hobbs rocks with him, hands gentle on his back. He whispers, “Shh. Shh.”

“I’m so sorry, Hobbs. Oh, God, I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“I know.” Hobbs lips are cool against his brow. “I know. I wish—I wish I had known all this before I passed.”

There is no solace to be found in this quiet plea. Jackson swallows, shifts to look Hobbs in the eye, but a hand pulls him back, ripping him from this nightmare and dream.

“Jackson, can you hear me? You must come to yourself. What you are seeing, what you are hearing, it is not real.”

“No!” Jackson pushes at the figure by his side, only to discover it is too late. Hobbs is gone, and with him, the quiet that banks the screaming in his head.

***.*.*.***

It is Jackson, on his knees and naked beside a cot that has seen better days, that greets Edmund. His heart breaks for he knows that though he sees no one, Jackson—Jackson sees the late Detective Constable Dick Hobbs, the most true officer to part ways with H Division. His loss brought all of them—Edmund, Jackson, Bennet—to their knees and haunts them still. For Jackson, however, it is far stronger than any of them could have anticipated. How had they none of them seen this?

“Because it was not there, not yet.” Bennet’s voice is low, almost inaudible. 

“How?”

“I asked myself the same thing when I knew where it was we were headed. Wondered at it a bit, but the lad, he was married. He weren’t the sort to dip out on his woman, not Hobbs sir, but the two of them—they were close. There’s no denying it. Had things been different, had his wife passed or left for other reasons, I’ve no doubt they would have made their way to one another.”

It seems such a strange thing for Bennet to say, all judgment gone from his tone and demeanor, for something—a being—he condemned not that long ago. Jackson, however, has ever held his own opinions, held no real bias towards the desires of men, regardless of his own. Would it have been so bad, Edmund wonders, if they had come together? No, not if meant their Hobbs was back with them, alive and well once more.

Between the two of them, with Susan looking on, a fine sheen of tears in her eyes, they manage to get Jackson upright and dressed. They lead him through and out of the house, their grips as kind as can be under the circumstances. Edmund will have to see the house is sold, possibly demolished. Something— _anything_ —to keep Jackson from returning.

As they make their way down the steps into the chill of the night, something brushes against Edmund’s wrist; phantom fingers that hold tight for just a heartbeat. A wind whips up, and with it comes a voice, soft and sad.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” And then, more faintly, “Take care of him for me, Inspector.”

Edmund closes his eyes and promises with all his heart to do just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant character death.


End file.
